


your fingertips, branding irons

by Ceryna



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Fluff, Introspection, M/M, featuring on-brand flashbacks, minor mentions of blood + injury, space metaphors are back in full force, takes place in the time skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:34:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23087098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceryna/pseuds/Ceryna
Summary: Between the accidental touches he's reconciled, the deliberate ones he's endured, and, from those he's built years of trust with, obliged– Kiyoomi has never wanted to let someoneindulge.Never, until Atsumu.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 46
Kudos: 678





	your fingertips, branding irons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [All_My_Characters_Are_Dead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_My_Characters_Are_Dead/gifts).



> happy belated birthday em!! ♡ please take this labor of love;;;; i hope you like it! 
> 
> this is my first time writing for Sakusa. i'm still learning how to write him, but hoooo boy, i love his pov. 12/10 want to write again! 
> 
> thank u to the discord for screaming with/at me and sprinting alongside me as i stared at my blinking cursor and tried to feed words to this monster. 
> 
> you can find my sakuatsu playlist on spotify [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2ELJB6joe6Dj2O1t68OFZS?si=4HjGFmZ7RVmnwb28t6cHQQ), and the tracklist (with yt links) is [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1inDWqsRasFx5yY30KVUqCv3qpLCz65byyp_dKcXrQvI/edit?usp=sharing). 
> 
> **before we start, a disclaimer:** i know nothing about collegiate and professional volleyball. research was attempted for this, but my imagination took over, as it does with most things. ¯\\(ツ)/¯
> 
>  **note for reading:** _sections entirely in italics_ are flashbacks. 
> 
> **Finally:** thank you for giving this fic a chance. Please enjoy!! ♡
> 
> UPDATE 04.18.2020: Now with [art](https://twitter.com/phixuscarus/status/1251617368184258561?s=19) by [Phix](https://twitter.com/phixuscarus)!!! 💙✨🙏

Kiyoomi fears many things, but germs are near the top of his list. 

It’s mostly common sense. The air contains millions of microbes, and they get everywhere, contaminating everything they touch… which leads to having established standards of cleanliness. Standards that, to Kiyoomi’s disgust, people ignore. 

And then there’s the obsessive aspect… Kiyoomi’s strict, self-imposed standards of cleanliness, which few people can respect, much less understand. That part takes over his life, consuming him to the point of driving people away– even those he once considered family. 

Kiyoomi recalls the little-known other reason he shies away from waving hands and jaunting limbs, something that was forgotten until recently… is that, despite appearances, and almost against his will, he wears his heart on his sleeve. 

He means that in a metaphorical sense– not strictly in the making his feelings apparent way, but in more of a near-constant “I’m undergoing open heart surgery, it’s not sanitary for you to touch me” way. 

So it’s only natural for him to be wary when fingers, limbs, and bodies draw too near. When people intrude on his boundaries, trying to pry him open and put his feelings on display.

His true feelings are for him, and _only_ him, to know. Physical distance helps him measure their intensity– the space keeps him safe, and not just from getting sick. Unwanted attention, noisy fans, unnecessary touches… have decreased through careful consideration from his teammates. Teammates that respect the edges of his boundaries– treading close to them, in jest and not– teammates that know not to touch.

Well. _Most_ of his teammates. 

They’ve all managed to touch Kiyoomi at least once. A hand on his shoulder, an arm brushing his, a nudge with the edge of a palm, a brief elbow to the ribs– small bits of contact, perhaps five, maybe ten seconds’ worth altogether. Enough time for them to realize Kiyoomi’s _“don’t touch me”_ part of his self-introduction is serious– that it applies even when he’s on the court. 

Enough time for them to grasp that Kiyoomi’s aloof politeness is tinged with venom... and that the venom is protective instinct, not insult.

As with any venom, there are those that taste it once, recognize it as not-quite-lethal, and maintain a respectful distance. That distance– which can be shortened once trust is more established– is carefully maintained.

And then there are those that _seek out_ the venom. Chasing after it, over and over again, so much that they find the lethal point and leave him alone… or build up a tolerance. 

In the rare case when the standard venom fails, Kiyoomi brandishes his words like a sword– one half of the blade forged with vicious quips and the other, gazes of the finest steel. 

That blade clashes against another– fashioned from adamantine disguised as porcelain. Brilliantly sharp, it meets Kiyoomi’s for the sake of connecting. 

They take turns striking at each other's throats, blows glancing off with parries they've grown to anticipate– it's an impasse unlike anything Kiyoomi has ever known. He can't help but wonder, want to know what would happen if he... sheathed the blade.

Stowed it away, still within reach– and held out his hand instead?

A new fear joins Kiyoomi's list, and it might be the most formidable one yet. 

# ***

_Kiyoomi’s first day as a full-time Black Jackals member starts early. After a simple jello breakfast, he drives over to the team’s sports complex– the traffic isn’t terrible at this hour, and he’s protected from the elements in his car. Sixteen minutes later, he’s safely parked and sliding his team ID in the card reader to get into the building._

_The locker room is, surprisingly, not empty._

_Miya Atsumu jostles his locker door open just as Kiyoomi walks in. He glances up, raising an eyebrow as Kiyoomi approaches locker number fifteen– to match the blocky script on the back of his newly acquired jersey._

_“So we’re ‘bout to be seein’ more of ya?”_

_Kiyoomi withdraws a cleansing towelette from the end pocket of his duffel and proceeds to wipe down the handle of his locker as well as the inner compartment. After he’s done, he considers Atsumu’s question in full._

_Kiyoomi has been a longtime occasional participant in Black Jackal practices. He received a number of scouting offers upon graduating from Itachiyama, but of those, few were willing to be reasonably flexible with his university plans. And of the few that were reasonable, the MSBY team dynamic proved to be the most accepting._

_So he agreed to participate in team events and practices as his college schedule allowed, which– since he’d accepted an academic scholarship with his university in addition to a sports scholarship– wasn’t as often as he’d have liked._

_But it was enough. On top of his coursework, playing the college volleyball circuit, eating, and sleeping were about all he had time for his first two years–_

_Until now, when he’s grown hungry for the promise of different competition in the sport that lets him break out of the compulsive cleanliness and into a freedom unlike any other._

_Although he’s giving up his sports scholarship– thankfully contingent on a year-to-year basis, so waiving it before starting his third year was essentially painless– the academic scholarship is more than sufficient for his tuition and rent._

_And with most of his coursework complete, he’s balanced the remaining requirements across his semesters, having at most two classes per– freeing up his schedule enough to go pro._

_Which is precisely what MSBY was willing to wait for._

_Kiyoomi’s reputation as a spiker is no secret, nor is the fact that he signed with the Jackals. But his aversion to contact, his need for cleanliness, respect, and competition… Atsumu knows, since he’s set to Kiyoomi before..._

_Maybe Atsumu has been waiting, too._

_Kiyoomi looks Atsumu square in the eye. “You better get used to me,” he says, smirk hidden behind his mask–_

_Atsumu quirks his other eyebrow up, recognizing the mirth. A grin stretches over his face, and he steps closer– shrugging his towel off his shoulder, the fabric falling over his elbow, which he nudges into Kiyoomi’s bicep._

_“_ **_You’re_ ** _gonna get used to_ **_us_** _,” he corrects, before stepping back and facing his locker– number thirteen._

_Kiyoomi snorts, stepping away from the contact. “Unlikely.” He gently places his duffel in his freshly cleaned locker, ignoring the tingling of his skin under his sleeve. Pulling out his athletic sneakers, he sets them aside– he’ll probably end up with new ones in no time, now that he’s officially part of the team lineup–_

_Atsumu’s locker door thunks shut, and Kiyoomi snaps his gaze over at the sound._

_Atsumu fixes his towel around his neck, leaning back against the grey metal. “Hurry up, or I’ll use all the workout equipment before ya.”_

_Kiyoomi blinks, refusing to noticeably speed up. He gets what he needs from his duffel and removes his mask before easing his locker shut, keeping one eye trained on Atsumu as he ties his shoes._

_And when he stands, hooking his towel over his shoulder, to find Atsumu at the door, holding it open… Kiyoomi can’t quite stop the corner of his mouth from quirking up._

# ***

This semester, Kiyoomi has one class instead of two, so he has even fewer excuses to skip out on team-building activities. 

Tonight’s was just dinner... or so he’d thought. 

Meian and Tomas ran out to grab everyone curry takeout as practice wound down. They ordered Kiyoomi a portion– which he refused, as usual. He brought leftovers to eat instead: homemade yakisoba, with fresh vegetables and teriyaki-marinated chicken in proper ratios. Someone else, usually Inunaki, is happy to eat more than his share. 

Kiyoomi sits at the end of the table. While he intends to only have to sit next to one person, _Bokuto_ sits beside him. And Bokuto talks enough for two people, sometimes.

“Ooh, Tomas!” Bokuto waves towards the other end of the table, the gesture wide– but his arm stops a clean fifteen to twenty centimeters away from Kiyoomi’s. “Were you thinking tonight for drinks?”

Tomas pauses, chopsticks halfway to his mouth, and tilts his head to the side. “Tonight works,” he says after a moment, and turns to Barnes. “You free?”

“Yep!” 

Kiyoomi keeps his eyes on his food, using his chopsticks to push the noodles and chicken around in his bento box for a final bite. He’s aware izakaya invites aren't surprising for the Jackals, but they’ve been coming up more often lately– even more than takeout nights.

Team takeout dinners have become a common occurrence. They’re quieter than going out, and avoid the subway and restaurant crowds in the aftermath of the traditional Japanese workday. They’re also a way to include Kiyoomi– valuing his comfort just the same as everyone else's. But drinks...

With a small, well-kept bar and a good host, Kiyoomi would be fine. He’s all for watching the chaos of his teammates getting plastered to varying degrees– as long as they don’t get too close. They’d never force him to partake in the alcohol, and Kiyoomi enjoys their company.

He won’t admit that last part aloud, of course. 

“Sakusa?” 

Kiyoomi leans around Bokuto to face Inunaki, who’d spoken. 

“Would you like to join us for drinks?” Inunaki rests his chin in his palm, an easy smile on his face. 

Kiyoomi shrugs, defaulting to his usual response– a pointed, "I have homework."

"You’re probably working _at least_ a week ahead in your class," Atsumu drawls from across the table. "Come with us, Omi-kun." He crosses his arms over his chest, lips curling up into a smirk. "We'll even let ya pick the place."

Kiyoomi meets everyone's eyes in turn– searching for a reason to say no, waiting for any of them to disagree– and finds none. He sighs. Atsumu wasn’t that far off. Kiyoomi’s about two weeks ahead in his reading notes, and has a solid draft of his upcoming essay assignment done. 

He takes a slow, deep breath. “You’re gonna regret this,” he warns, pushing back from the table to rinse his chopsticks at the sink. What he _doesn’t_ say is that he’s already somewhat regretting this and they haven't even left for the izakaya yet.

“No, we won’t!” Bokuto beams. “We’re happy to have you with us, Kiyoomi-kun.” 

“I will _not_ be driving anyone home,” Kiyoomi retorts despite the warmth curling in his chest. He lingers at the sink a bit longer, holding onto the bright honesty in Bokuto’s words– _happy to have you with us, Kiyoomi–_ they carry power in them, one that's only granted when spoken.

The discussion behind him fades into murmurs, interspersed with chairs scraping across the floor as the team finishes their dinners and heads back to the locker room. 

Kiyoomi is still at the sink when he hears footsteps come up behind him. They stop about a half meter away, and then a quiet, “Omi-kun.” 

Atsumu doesn’t sing-song the nickname. He says it not flatly, but _cautiously._ As if he fears being overheard in a room where only they two remain.

Kiyoomi decides to return the gesture. “Atsumu.” The man’s name falls off his tongue, softly nonchalant–

And Atsumu shudders, but his smile doesn’t waver as he says, “ya don’t have to come with us if ya don’t wanna.”

An escape route. That’s what this is. An exit, in case Kiyoomi felt too pressured in that instant and agreed, in case he’s maxed out his daily social interaction quota or does, in fact, need to get home and take care of his homework.

Kiyoomi feels relief, but also a sting– that Atsumu doesn’t trust the words that came out of his mouth, that Kiyoomi’s acquiescence to team izakaya night was a fluke. And that relief flickers out, replaced by stinging flames of something like anger... but much more intense.

Since Atsumu should know by now that Kiyoomi doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean– 

Oh.

_Oh_.

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes as he discovers the hidden edge of the statement– it's a reassurance as much as it's a challenge.

He doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want to. But he should _want,_ is what Atsumu’s implying. Kiyoomi should _want_ to go with them tonight. 

“Relax… If I really didn’t want to go, I wouldn't have agreed in the first place." 

Atsumu's smile widens. “Heh!” He smacks Kiyoomi’s arm just under his shoulder before casually retreating toward the kitchen doors– giving Kiyoomi ample time to retrieve his bento box from the table and meet him there. 

Atsumu pulls the door open as Kiyoomi approaches, propping it there with his foot. "Can I buy you a drink, Omi-kun?"

Kiyoomi stops in the doorway, flicking his gaze down to meet Atsumu’s. Cedar eyes greet him with mirth, and, after a moment, he nods and strides away. It’s a flawless evasion of the fact that he doesn’t know what to say–

Doesn’t know, because he’s just arrived at the baffling conclusion to why he’d agreed to izakaya night at all.

Come with us, Atsumu said. _Come with us._

But Kiyoomi heard _come with_ **_me._ ******

# ***

_Kiyoomi isn’t in the habit of getting distracted in the presence of others._

_He can’t– not with anxiety dragging behind his shoulders, itching under his fingernails and bringing an acrid taste to the back of his mouth._

_But when the floor is gilded brown and white, shoe squeaks echoing on hardwood and leather thudding like a pulse against upturned wrists and hands…_

_Those sensations fade._

_Cool air filters into Kiyoomi’s lungs as he steps into a run. His hands glide out as he approaches the net, muscles coiling as he leaps up to meet the toss._

_The ball is delivered to him at the apex of his jump, leather striking home in his palm before speeding down, down into the undefended back corner of the opposite side of the court. He rolls his wrist, clenching and unclenching a fist as the residual energy of the spike fades from his hand._

_When the last of the crackling fades, friction fizzling out, Kiyoomi turns to Atsumu. Not to compliment the toss, or ask for another. He doesn’t need words for that– not when the satisfaction is written in the rise and fall of his chest, the steadiness of his fingers, the corners of his mouth._

_Atsumu meets Kiyoomi’s eyes. He is radiant, unflinching as he steps in Kiyoomi’s direction. His arm jerks forward slightly and retreats back to his side, hand twitching– as if he was going to offer Kiyoomi a clap to the back, a smack to the shoulder–_

_As if he wants to congratulate Kiyoomi on a point well-earned, but knows that the touch might destroy him._

_The gesture remains in Kiyoomi’s mind for the rest of the set. Through the end of the match, his cooldown stretches, it follows him into the locker room, tingling across every place Atsumu has touched him–_

_Haunting the back of his neck, the hem of his sleeve, the edge of his right pinky– ghosting over his left scapula, between ribs eight and nine._

_Kiyoomi unlatches his locker with more force than necessary. He snags his neatly folded towel and wipes his forehead with it, fabric dampening under his fingertips. It unravels into a lopsided rectangle that he drags over his hair with clenched fingers, coming to rest in an uneven curl around his neck._

_For all the attention Kiyoomi gives his own hands, keeping them clean and in peak condition, he also notices the hands of others._

_Making sure he won’t accidentally come into contact with them– no one can say for sure where they've been, much less list everything they’ve touched– as well as observation. Hands are one of the ways Kiyoomi learns about a person._

_Fingernail length and condition, blisters and bruises, calluses and scars, wrinkles and indentations– stories are carved into the skin. To touch someone... is to know them. Apparently._

_Kiyoomi's heard all the excuses in the book for why he should... “get used” to touch. It's aggravating, the lengths that former friends and total strangers will go to inject their perspectives into Kiyoomi’s life, under the assumption that his mysophobia and its symptoms are “misguided.”_

_While he can reluctantly admit he has wondered about touch– what it'd be like to “know someone” with all five senses instead of three– those thoughts have been fleeting._

_Kiyoomi is wary of trying to know people. He's learned he has to be, since the people that bother to know him when he insists on personal space and hygiene are few._

_He isn't sure when that few began including Atsumu, nor when he started trying to read the narrative of hands not quite out of reach._

_Atsumu's fingertips are wide, callused from years of setting volleyballs. The callus on his right ring finger stretches up the left side, precisely where he’d balance a pen to write._

_His fingers bear scars matching the tales of his kitchen mishaps. A thin, off-white line between the knuckle and the nail bed of his left index finger, and an unrounded sliver of skin on his left thumb– in contrast with his carefully maintained fingernails, which just barely meet the edges of his fingertips._

_Kiyoomi has seen those fingers rigid and bloody, accompanied by bruised knuckles from a locker room scuffle with a “rude-ass homophobic dipshit” after a guest practice match that the team doesn't speak of._

_Kiyoomi couldn't have touched the aforementioned dipshit, not on his life. Nothing that would risk contaminating his bare hands– which were blazing, fists clenched tightly around the fabric lining the pockets of his jacket._

_But he'd_ **_thought_ ** _about it._

_Thought about carving half-moons into his palms, driving his bony knuckles into their jaw... the skin around the joints purpling from broken blood vessels, spattered red to match the fury simmering in his veins, splitting and stinging from that horrible second of contact to get them to stop spewing spittle and filth about them, about him, about_ **_Atsumu–_ **

_“Omi-Omi?”_

_Kiyoomi flinches._

_The movement jolts his towel from his shoulder, the fabric falling victim to gravity–_

_Until Atsumu intercepts it, plucking the towel neatly out of the air before pinching the corner and holding it out to Kiyoomi. “Sorry, Omi-Omi,” he says smoothly. “I thought ya’d prefer my hands to the floor.”_

_Kiyoomi snatches the towel back, deftly turning to his locker so that Atsumu won’t know_ _–_

_Can’t know that all Kiyoomi can think of, will be thinking of for the next goddamn month are his hands on Kiyoomi’s body, searing heat across Kiyoomi’s hands, arms, neck, mouth_ _–_

_And somehow, this doesn’t disgust Kiyoomi._

_Well, it still disgusts him. But it’s starting to sound kind of appealing._

# ***

Kazebana Izakaya is nestled into a residential district in a Tokyo subdivision. It can seat twelve people on a good day, maybe seventeen with the patio out front– and is run by a couple of women in their forties.

Kiyoomi has never been inside Kazebana before tonight. He’s passed by it a few times, enough to become familiar with the slate exterior, the patio– surrounded by the vivid green of potted plants– and its name, which means ‘flurry of snow in a clear sky’.

He's the last of the seven of them to slip his shoes off in the tiny genkan before stepping up onto cherrywood floors. Meandering over to a long, low table surrounded by floor cushions, he takes the end one next to Atsumu– placing one of his spare thin towels over it before sitting down. He settles into the soft, forest green and thinks entirely too hard about what the people sitting there before him left behind.

Stray hairs, fuzz, dirt particles– he'll need to do laundry tonight.

Atsumu slides Kiyoomi a laminated menu. "About that drink I promised ya," he murmurs, resting an elbow on the table and slipping his chin idly into his palm. "What would ya like?"

Kiyoomi watches the square of reflected lamplight glint against the menu, and thinks that he'd like a lot of things. To go home, for example– but not right away, since the bar's atmosphere and his teammates’ lack of judgement help him feel comfortable. As far as alcohol, he'd like a shot of limoncello or another digestif– but the odds this small izakaya has international liqueurs are slim.

He'd like to not still be thinking about all the crumbs hidden by the muted pattern on the floor cushion, the alcohol residue on the menus, the particles of gravel and soil lingering in the genkan, where he'd left his shoes.

He'd like Atsumu's hand– the one that cradles his chin– to be _his_ hand instead, tilting it up _just slightly_ before–

"Omi-kun?" The hand in question appears in front of Kiyoomi's face, followed by a sheepish chuckle.

Kiyoomi blinks at the menu. He resists raking his hands through his hair– as if that'd dislodge the thought from his mind– and mutters, "limoncello," even as his mind chants _you, you, you–_ and looks up at Atsumu.

Which is simultaneously a mistake because Atsumu's smile lights up like a sunrise– glowing softly and growing warmer and wider as the stars of recognition cross the horizon– and not a mistake at all, as it'd be a shame to not witness it.

"That's one of those..." Atsumu trails off, squinting his eyes shut and snapping his fingers once, twice. "Uh, whaddya call it, uh, the after-meal drinks, yeah? Digestives?"

"Digestif," Kiyoomi corrects, biting his lip behind the safety of his mask. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment longer than a blink– that's all the time needed for the star to unfurl between his ribs, heavy and dense, intensity no longer able to be muted.

Smoldering, it sweeps embers of energy along Kiyoomi's skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. It sings truths Kiyoomi keeps buried in his marrow, far away from prying eyes and fingers– melodies of memories etched into his surface.

Between the accidental touches he's reconciled, the deliberate ones he's endured, and, from those he's built years of trust with, obliged– Kiyoomi has never wanted to let someone _indulge._

Never, until Atsumu.

The revelation burns away into a careful silence, one that Kiyoomi finds he doesn't like. It shatters everything he thought he knew about himself– taking the thoughts of wanting and amplifying them into genuine attraction, echoing in the aftermath of his personal avalanche. 

There's a discrepancy between the star in his chest and the black hole of his mind– a distinction between experiencing genuine attraction, rather than merely contemplating it. 

Kiyoomi trembles under an earthquake of emotions he'd understood he wouldn't feel, is unprepared to face– 

"-sn't on the menu, but other citrus stuff is, so..." Atsumu reviews the page with a swipe of his scarred index finger, which slides down line after line. "Yuzu sour's probably the closest they've got." 

Kiyoomi feels the star surge beneath his collarbones, pulse thrumming as he swallows, slowly, until he thinks he won’t choke on his reply. "Fine."

"I'll treat ya to yer lemon thingy another time," Atsumu continues, sunrise smile curling into a cheshire grin– 

And is oblivious as the star shoots higher, pressing into Kiyoomi's jugular. "Another time," he echoes, mouth fluttering into a smile as his imagination spins and spins, whirling together a reckless hope– 

A hope that _that_ time will be just the two of them.

# ***

_April arrives with a maelstrom of changes. Within the span of two weeks, Kiyoomi graduates from Itachiyama, obtains his driver's license, acquires a car, and moves into a tiny house close to where he'll be attending university._

_Kiyoomi peers out the gym’s high windows with a sigh. Pollen is thick in the air, sakura petals raining haphazardly under a cloudless sky. He reaches up to rest his fingers against the back of his neck– not to scratch, not when he can't clean under his fingernails right away– but to subtly touch the elastic strands keeping his mask in place._

_Slipping on a mask before he leaves the house has been routine for as long as he can remember. It's a ritual that holds a sacred sense of security– the mask is part of him. He feels naked, vulnerable without it– his lungs don't work the same without elastic loops snug around his ears, a panel of fabric over his nose and mouth to filter out the rest of the world._

_In the process of adjusting to living on his own, having entire control of his own space– though his parents were the ones that helped him acquire it– perhaps the most shocking development is that his mask can come off once he's home._

_He doesn't need to wear it in his living room, in the kitchen– although he'll occasionally wear one while he cooks– and miraculously, his lungs can cooperate with volleyball and related activities._

_But right now, when he's getting ready to meet the full MSBY Black Jackals team for the first time, after tentatively accepting their offer to go pro after he finishes his degree..._

_He needs it now more than ever before– as he threads his fingers together in a weak attempt to warm them._

_Coach Foster just left to grab the team from the locker room, so Kiyoomi isn't expecting the gymnasium doors to blast open, thudding against the flimsy doorstop to reveal one of the Miya twins– Atsumu, if he recalls correctly._

_Atsumu steps into the brightly lit gym with a guffaw, letting the doors bang shut behind him. "So it really is ya, Sakusa."_

_Kiyoomi frowns, cheeks pinching in irritation at the informality. "Miya," he quips, taking satisfaction from the way that Atsumu's eyebrows shoot up in confusion. "Nice to see you, too."_

_Atsumu strolls up next to Kiyoomi, huffing under his breath, and opens his mouth. "Why are ya here?"_

_Instinct has Kiyoomi narrowing his eyes. Layered in that question– which would've been insulting if delivered in any other tone– is a shrewdly veiled_ **_you could've gone anywhere._ **

_Kiyoomi is almost offended by the thought– he really couldn't have. Not when most of the offers were contingent on him starting his pro career immediately after his high school graduation. They arrived in the mail, over the phone, piling into his inbox, overflowing with flowery language and precisely the flattery he hates._

_He didn't start volleyball with the intention of becoming one of the top three spikers in Japan– barely anyone knows that it was and continues to be a form of exposure therapy, and remains one of the few constants in his life._

_So when a handwritten letter arrived at his home, printed in neat script and notably absent of what he came to believe was standard gallantry– and enclosed with Samson Foster's personal phone number– MSBY became a top contender._

_And after meeting with Coach Foster, negotiating for the conditions he couldn’t compromise on– flexible start date, a PR agent that would respect his privacy, and honoring his personal boundaries, to name a few– and today’s test of team compatibility, Kiyoomi is convinced that MSBY is the_ **_only_ ** _place he can go._

_The sentiment that Atsumu– someone who he’s stood beside, who’s tossed to him, competed against– believes Kiyoomi could thrive on any team... is more credit than Kiyoomi deserves._

_“I’m here,” he begins, “because I don’t want to be given_ _the position of outside hitter.” He swallows, concealing the lump in his throat as the truth falls from his lips more sharply than he intends. “I want to earn it.”_

_Atsumu blinks. "Give yourself some credit," he drawls, eyes glinting with humor as he cracks a grin. "You get to be on_ **_my_ ** _team."_

_"Your team?” Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “You aren't even the starting setter."_

_Atsumu’s grin turns feral. He waves his hand loosely, shifting his weight to his other foot and crosses his arms. "Just a matter of time."_

_Kiyoomi finds the sheer confidence of that statement off-putting, but isn’t able to refute it. He knows Atsumu from the youth intensive training camp two years ago– his measured recklessness and habit of chasing ever-elusive perfection have earned him a place in Kiyoomi's memory._

_The Atsumu before Kiyoomi now is, perhaps, promising him all that dedication–_

_And something else that Kiyoomi can't put his finger on._

_Something he won't touch for years until it becomes a weight in his ribcage, threatening to eat him alive._

# *** 

Three months and thirteen days have passed since a supernova erupted in Kiyoomi's chest. Three and a half months with stardust in his lungs, spreading under his skin, fusing until no part of him remains unscathed. 

The sensation of attraction is something Kiyoomi is still adapting to. It soothes his hands and scorches them, scalds his tongue and spurs it on, gives him air and leaves him breathless. 

It is fear and hope and doubt and _want_ tangled together– Ariadne's string, rendered useless. 

Tonight finds Kiyoomi at Kazebana with the Jackals again. He uses a handkerchief to clutch his glass of half-melted ice and dregs of yuzu sour, anxious fingers hidden beneath pale fabric. He sips the last of the drink, citrus lingering on his tongue, and wonders how many stars have formed and collapsed in Atsumu's chest– 

How many suns have been born in a blast of warmth, swirls of cyan, dandelion and vermillion blooming with ferocious luminosity, and could one– _could one bloom for Kiyoomi–_

Cold, inflexible logic tries to shut down the thought. Kiyoomi knows better than to project his limited understanding of how attraction feels onto others, but the buzzed, alcohol-addled part of his brain prevents the gates from coming all the way down. Words tickle the back of his throat, so Kiyoomi slips his mask back up over his face, tucking his face from nose to chin into fabric to hide his jaw–

Which clenches tightly shut as he pushes back from the table, withdrawing a thousand-yen bill from his wallet to cover his tab, and forces out a nonchalant, "I need to go." 

His teammates take his abruptness in stride, wishing him a safe trip home. Kiyoomi does _not_ notice Atsumu glance up mid-laugh, his grin shrinking into a smile–

A smile that stabs warmth through Kiyoomi's ribs. 

"Omi-Omi?"

Kiyoomi's star surges beneath his sternum. He extracts the towel he sat on, folding it inward so all the unknown particles don't touch his hands, and inclines his head in a slight bow. "Goodnight," he mutters, bowing to the hostesses and retreating to the genkan for his shoes. 

He's in the middle of lacing them up when footfalls creak the floor behind him, and knows without looking over his shoulder that Atsumu has followed him. It's confirmed a half second later when–

"There's a reason yer runnin' outta here like a house on fire."

Kiyoomi zips up his jacket, the metal teeth of the zipper pressing into his palm as it lingers just below his collarbone. He recognizes the question in Atsumu's statement– and the futility in ignoring it. "Yes," he says, quietly brazen.

It's not a house that's on fire, it's his goddamn heart.

Atsumu takes a seat next to Kiyoomi, locating his black and grey sneakers and sliding them on. "Ya gonna tell me wha's goin' on?" 

Kiyoomi gives him a frosty glare– to which Atsumu merely raises an eyebrow.

"Ya won't answer me sober, so I'm not above askin' ya when yer drunk."

"Mildly tipsy," Kiyoomi concedes. "And no, you really aren't." He watches the edge of Atsumu's smile curl upward, his smirk a fishhook curve– reeling Kiyoomi ever closer to revealing who the star in his chest is for.

Kiyoomi tucks the towel under his arm and gets to his feet. Shrugging his hands in his pockets to keep them safe– as well as to double-check he has his phone, keys, and wallet– he eases the door open with a sleeved forearm against the push bar. 

He steps out into the evening... but stops, catching the heel of his left shoe against the door's metal edge– holding it open for Atsumu, who ducks out after him. 

They don't make it half a block before Atsumu breaks the silence.

"Omi-kun, ya never hold doors." Atsumu sidesteps around him, making a one-eighty to cut him off from the front. "Where's the fire?"

_Pulsing in my chest._

"Uh." Atsumu's eyebrows shoot up, concern turning his cautious smile into a pensive line. "Like, heartburn?"

Belatedly, Kiyoomi realizes he spoke aloud– and hides the fear, embarrassment beneath a low scoff. "Forget–"

"Like... love?"

Kiyoomi flinches. _No._ But the star– which has moved up next to his windpipe– lets three words escape on a whispered exhale. "I don't know." 

In a stroke of uncharacteristic behavior, Atsumu is quiet for a minute. He scrutinizes Kiyoomi for ten seconds, holds up his index finger for three, closes his eyes for eighteen. Taps his heel against pavement for nine, bites his lip for twelve, and opens his mouth for eight before speaking. 

"I won't pretend to know what yer feelin'," he begins. "Only ya know that. But love? S’full of contradictions."

"Like what?"

Atsumu's Adam's apple bobs. "Like, it keeps ya up at night, but also comforts ya to sleep. It's... enough, knowin' someone from far away, but you wanna know 'em up close." He threads his fingers together, squinting his eyes shut before opening them to meet Kiyoomi's gaze. "It's feelin' full– not that halves an' wholes crap, just. Their presence in yer life makes it more fulfillin'. But it still leaves ya hungry for more of ‘em."

Kiyoomi shudders, feeling an imminent solar flare in his chest. "Sounds irritating." He reaches into his pocket for a sanitizing wipe, tearing open the paper. "Speaking of irritating, you have something on your face." 

Atsumu blinks, thoughtful expression shifting into a grimace. "Seriously, Omi-kun? What the hell." But he doesn't complain as Kiyoomi sponges a cold, antiseptic towelette against both his cheeks.

Kiyoomi folds it in half and wipes down his own palms– which he places on those still-damp cheeks. "Atsumu." 

Atsumu shivers in Kiyoomi's hands. His cheeks warm under the touch. "Please don't call me an idiot sandwich," he chokes out– but his eyes are shining, and Kiyoomi can feel him hold his breath–

"You're infuriating," Kiyoomi complains– 

Complains, except it's not just a complaint. 

Atsumu’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Don’t move, Omi-kun,” he says, and withdraws an _identical_ sanitizing towelette from his jacket pocket, wiping his hands with it. His fingers tremble as they reach for Kiyoomi’s face. Pausing, they retreat slightly before– before _returning._

The second knuckle of his right index finger trails gently down Kiyoomi’s cheek over his mask, featherlight, and Kiyoomi burns.

_Burns,_ and does not move. 

“Omi-kun.” 

Atsumu manages a shaky smile– a smile that Kiyoomi feels his marrow sing is just for him. 

“You infuriate me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story (^^)
> 
> comments help fuel my writing! i'd love to know your favorite line, if you like the story and characterization ^^
> 
> I'm on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/Ceryna_writes)!
> 
> fun fact if you're still here: Kazebana is a real izakaya in Tokyo. I passed by it often while I lived there, and felt it was the kind of place Sakusa would choose to (mostly) willingly spend time with his teammates.


End file.
